


Irony

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: There is a number of small things [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Irony, M/M, Slytherins Being Slytherins, TGIF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We’re Slytherins, I’ve definitely been here before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irony

**Author's Note:**

> Draco would rather die than admit that he listens to muggle pop artists like Katy Perry, but I'm not above it. I'm sure you can guess which song loosely inspired this drabble.
> 
> Everybody knows that the best fun is had on Fridays…TGIF!
> 
> For Theodore, you know who you are.

**_Last Friday night…_ **

 

 

There is a dull thump somewhere just beyond reasonable doubt. My eyes are not quite willing to open and instead I groan hoarsely. If I was a bit more lucid I would wonder why my eyelashes seem to be glued to my cheeks or why it feels like I  had deep throated a block of sandpaper, but as it turns out I am barely conscious and don’t actually care… _yet._

“Where the hell—“ My hand fumbles around beside me as I attempt to discern where I am by feeling alone. Small circular objects stick to my fingers and I’m pretty sure I’m lying in a bathtub and it is right here where the first signs of reality start to seep in. Reaching up, with effort, I rub at my eyes with bent knuckles and I slide one open experimentally. It’s blurry, but it’s not blindingly bright and I sigh thankfully and attempt to sit up.  “Fuck me…” Slips out of my mouth and I groan again, that dull thump from earlier now a persistent drum and bass right in the center of my head. Glancing around my immediate surroundings I see that I am indeed, in a bathtub; a rather expensive one from the looks of it. It would appear that at some point the night before I thought it would be a good idea to take a bath in sequins—Ah, the mystery of my earlier exploration, solved.

 

It is with some effort that I manage to extract myself from my sequin prison and when I find my footing, I fall right back to the ground as my knees buckle beneath the pressure. “Damn it.” In the right capacity, I would be disgusted with my current situation—Covered in sequins on my hands and knees in an unknown facility? What the hell is wrong with me? It takes a **lot** more effort and several trips back to the ground before I can actually stand up, which, in hindsight, was probably not the wisest of choices. 

 

The sight of my own reflection is alarming and despite the visible flinch, I lean forward for closer inspection. Rainbow sequins are stuck to pretty much every exposed inch of flesh and I’m silently thankful I hadn’t actually stripped off before climbing in that bathtub. There is a questionable smudge of black on my cheek and a purple mark on my throat. _Hickey or a bruise?_ My eyes are unattractively bloodshot and burn like they’ve been staring into the depths of hell for the past twenty-four hours. Thankfully, my hair came out unscathed and actually looks fairly perfect—In an ‘all night bender’ sort of way.  My wand is nowhere to be found and I curse under my breath and reach for the door to slowly pry it open.

 

 _Clearly a penthouse._ I think as I move down the padded hall, not missing the trail of empty bottles leading the way to a large sitting room.  “Shite.” It’s really all I can say at first glance and I come to halt to survey the damage. The annoyingly bright sunlight filtering in between slits in the curtains is thankfully minimal; not that it lessens the screech in my head any. My eyes move around the large circular room and nothing looks remotely familiar. There are bottles _everywhere_ , all with varying amounts of contents in them. There is a small cluster of said bottles on the table I’m standing beside and I eye them dubiously before a mental _fuck it_ and a shrug. I scoop up the one that looks the safest and take a swallow, almost immediately regretting it. A string of colorful words fall out of my mouth and my throat is on fire and I think that the pain is worse than any unforgivable curse I’ve ever been on the receiving end of.  

 

An overturned ashtray lies in the middle of the room, it’s contents sprayed around it haphazardly like a gruesome crime scene and judging by the amount of a particular brand of stubbed filters lying about, I know Theodore can’t be far away. My skin instantly prickles with goose bumps and my gaze sharpens as I move further into the room. _Where is that little deviant?_ I don’t actually **see** him anywhere, which is mildly alarming, but not terribly concerning—at least not yet.  My gaze shifts upward and I arch a brow at the brassiere hanging from the chandelier and I try and remember _who_ the owner is.  A brief moment of relief is had when I spot limbs protruding from beneath the coffee table, but it is quickly squashed upon closer inspection.  _Beardy chap with hideous trousers, aannd…topless brunette curled up beside him._ One would think that I would be panicking to find myself in a situation such as this—Strange hotel room, questionable surroundings, passed out strangers. Ironically, this is not the first time this sort of thing has happened.

 

We’re Slytherins, I’ve **definitely** been here before.

 

The bedroom is where I find him, curled up in the fucking bed, of all places. I have the sudden urge to strangle him but it passes and I quietly move closer. My wand is sitting on the bedside table right next to his, two empty bottles, and an ashtray. Honestly, he doesn’t look much better. His hair is stuck to the side of his face (looking far less perfect than mine. It’s a gift) and there is a length of clear plastic taped to his forearm. My brow rises curiously and I reach for him, carefully lifting off the covering and finding a rather large and freshly inked tattoo beneath it. At least I now know where we spent a portion of our evening previous. My gaze narrows at the tattoo, which depicts what appears to be a guitar neck wound in a worded banner. _Death before dishoner._  I can’t help but laugh at the obvious misspelling and the knowledge of how pissed he was going to be when the realization set in. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I forced my fingers inside the pockets of the constricting jeans he liked to wear, extracting the cigarette box from within with a bit of effort. Against my better judgment I lit one with the tip of my wand, desperately trying to ignore the throbbing protest of my throat as I inhaled deeply.  I wanted coffee and needed a shower, but first…

 

“Why do you always end up in the bed?” I poked him sharply in the ribs.

 _“Because I’m not thick enough to think sequins are **ever** a good idea.” _ His voice sounded as rough as mine felt. “Speaking of thick…nice tattoo.” The sarcasm was painfully obvious and I smirked around the cigarette filter in my mouth, watching him. _“Piss off Malfoy, I was incapacitated…not one of my best decisions.”_ His mouth turned down into a pouting frown and my insides instantly twisted in sympathy, which was inconvenient considering how smug I had planned to be. “A writer with a permanent typo, were you going for ironic?” I smirked down from above him, watching as he squinted an eye open at me and looked vaguely murderous. He didn’t say anything, but he did reach up and steal the cigarette from between my lips in a move that was very much like my own. I watched him and the way his lips formed around the filter almost lovingly. It was something I’d seen a million times before and yet never grew tired of.  We sat like that for a while, him smoking and me quietly contemplating life, love, and questionable choices. Once he’d finished he raised his arm, the one with the tattoo, and peered long and hard at it.  _“At least it looks good.”_ He smiled wistfully and sat up; wincing at what I could only guess was a pounding headache of his very own. _“Let’s go home.”_ He added as he slid off the bed and held out a hand for me to take.

 

After a bit of searching for our missing ensemble pieces we quietly left the penthouse, not wanting to wake up the still-slumbering strangers that might also possibly be good friends. _No idea really._ We stepped out into the hallway and Theodore glanced up and down the vacant corridor before pressing himself very close against my front.   _“Fancy a ride?_ ” His voice was a hoarse purr and I wanted to laugh, but nodded instead; my eyes sliding closed as the sickening pull of apparition tugged at my navel and carried us both away.

 

“Remind me not to let you choose what we drink on Fridays.” I’m halfway down the hallway to the bathroom, a trail of ruined designer clothing and sequins left in my wake. _“Remind me to show you the tattoo that **you** got.”_ His voice called from somewhere behind and I froze, eyes widening in horror.

 

_Fuck._


End file.
